


Particularly Bad At Axioms

by bottleredhead



Series: Particularly Bad [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Parallel Universe, Angst, Enjolras wakes up, Fluff, I think?, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, and is confused, yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottleredhead/pseuds/bottleredhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m not at home.” It burns coming out, as though he’s confessing a cardinal sin to a priest he knows will not reprimand him but will be disappointed in a quiet way that’s worse than any yelling-at could even hope to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Particularly Bad At Axioms

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, wow! Thanks to all you wonderful people for the support the first part of this has received!
> 
> I hope you guys like this just as much.

_In a parallel universe…_

It’s the sunlight streaming through the open blinds that rouses Enjolras from his stupor. The left side of his face is warm, more so because of his surprisingly comfortable pillow. As he breathes in deeply, the pillow shifts so that he ends up with his nose mashed into something hard. A quick peek confirms that it is someone’s clavicle.

Well then. Isn’t this lovely.

There’s an arm around his torso, curving around his back to mold him to the man. From this vantage point, all he can see is a room that is familiar but the distinct lack of mental evidence tells him that he hasn’t seen it from this point of view before.

When he tilts his head to get a better look at his bed partner, trying very hard to ignore the panic clawing its way up his chest, he’s met with black, riotous curls. Curls so beautiful, so lush and soft that they could belong to only one person.

“Oh God,” he whispers, words muffled against paint-stained skin.

The muscles underneath his hands tense, Grantaire’s breath stuttering as though he’s going to wake up, before it evens out again. Letting out a relieved breath, Enjolras extricates himself from their tangle of limbs with great difficulty. He makes no noise lest he disturbs Grantaire and be faced with awkward morning-after chatter.

Out of the bed and standing painfully naked in the middle of the room, he grabs his clothes from their scattered mess around the bed, crumpled beyond repair after spending the night on Grantaire’s floor. Dressed, Enjolras looks at Grantaire fully, trying to dislodge the alarms screaming in his head.

The man is still asleep, and in repose looks almost peaceful. His hair is splayed across the white pillowcases, a stark contrast in colours as paint flecks stain his chest blue, purple and red so vividly that the paint looks like it’s been freshly applied. Upon closer inspection, Enjolras notes that the stains aren’t paint, but love bites. The red ones are surrounded by teeth marks, identical half-moon replicas of Enjolras’ own. 

_I did that?_

There’s also a small smile stretching his bitten and kiss-bruised lips. All in all, he looks utterly debauched yet so beautiful it sets an ache somewhere in Enjolras’ ribcage.

Grantaire’s eyes are closed but Enjolras knows that under those sleepless-purple lids, a bright, electric blue rests. Thanking God that the artist is asleep, he slips out of the bedroom as quietly as possible. He wouldn’t be able to think straight with those gorgeous and oh so cynical eyes on him.

A quick inventory ensures him that he’s not feeling sore down there, not really. That doesn’t mean anything though; he might not have been on the receiving end but who knows what else they have done?

Thinking about it is sparking a migraine behind his eyes, so he gathers the remnants of his things, toes on his shoes and quietly walks out of the apartment. His hands are shaking as he pulls his phone from his pocket, teeth gnawing on his lips as he waits for the call to connect.

“Enjolras?” and oh but Combeferre’s voice is groggy and confused. This should be fun to explain. “What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, at least I think so but I’m not really sure and the only person who can give me answers is sleeping but oh god I can’t face him now!”

He’s babbling, so Combeferre takes charge.

“Okay, take a deep breath. Okay? Okay. I’ll be at your apartment in fifteen minutes, okay?”

 _Those are too many okay’s for one sentence,_ Enjolras thinks hysterically.

“I’m not at home.” It burns coming out, as though he’s confessing a cardinal sin to a priest he knows will not reprimand him but will be disappointed in a quiet way that’s worse than any yelling-at could even hope to be.

“….Okay. Come to mine, then?”

With a plan and an appointment to keep, Enjolras hops up from his perch on Grantaire’s building’s staircase. He has to be at Combeferre’s in fifteen minutes.

 _It’ll be fine_ , he tells himself. _If anyone can fix this, it’s Combeferre._

_God. How drunk was I last night, anyway?_

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd, because I'm lazy.
> 
> Comments and kudos welcome!


End file.
